


tagged: pomegranate gore

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Hades and Persephone Mythology Fusion, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dave Isn't Actually Persephone He's Just Filling The Role, Dom Karkat, Dom/sub, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gore, Humanstuck, Karkat Is God Of The Underworld, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Modern Retelling, Mythology References, Not Exactly Humanstuck, Organs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pomegranates, Sub Dave Strider, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider and your sister has banished you to New Orleans for an inspirational sabbatical or whatever.As it stands, you've spent entirely too long here and gotten nothing done, so when you get invited to this fancy club you've never heard of, you figure you have nothing to lose just checking it out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing done on a whim. Will I ever stop? Probably not.
> 
> At least this one I have mostly plotted out, hence the really long opening chapter and probably long succeeding chapters.

It feels like summer has gone on for longer than any season reasonably should.

It hasn't, because you're not in college anymore and you can make your extended vacations last as long as you'd like, technically, but you kind of regret not being sent somewhere more forgiving to your admittedly less than humidity adapted ass. The fucking air here simultaneously feels like soup and tastes like dirt, and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Pretty unfortunate that this is also the tamer time of day. Even at this hour, there's no sign of relief for you no matter where you go; the stores are packed with people, and the streets are baked bright and unforgiving. Even the breeze feels hot; the smell of low tide is a constant presence here, a damp, salty ghost breathing all over your sweaty, anguished face. 

You're no environmentalist, but to be perfectly fucking honest, you can't imagine ever being cold again under these conditions.

Your shirt sticks to your back as you sit under a slowly-turning ceiling fan that barely makes your hair rustle, waiting for your waiter to come back with your food or at the very least a saucer of salted peanuts and some iced service water. A mosquito buzzes around the vicinity of your ear. You swat it and make a face at the crushed remains against your palm.

You probably shouldn't have left your hotel if just getting dinner is going to be this miserable. You made sure to pick somewhere nice, the kind of place with a picturesque balcony that you can use as a backdrop for pretentious instagram selfies. You could be sitting up there bitching about the heat with close and immediate access to an airconditioner should you please.

Instead you're fuck deep in the historical city of New Orleans, which is a really generous definition of the word city by your standards, and you would almost, almost, trade it for being back in LA, or hell, in fucking Houston.

Why does your sister send you on soul-searching bullshit ghost hunts for inspiration, anyway? Your name is Dave Strider, damnit, and inspiration is for hacks who don't know how to make complete bullshit an art form. 

What you need is a gallon of iced tea, and maybe something to mix in with it. You'll be sure to order that when the waiter comes back. Fuck this place. Iced tea and something to mix it with.

Roxy would have recommendations, you're sure. Roxy isn't here to bail your ass out of sweaty swamp town Hell, though. You resent her a little for it, but you assume the Lalondes have their own lives elsewhere, whatever it is that those two and their respective girlfriends get up to.

You're a little confused when the waiter comes back with like, the world's tiniest sundae. It's almost cute, served in a fancy cut glass bowl, but it's also the thing is around the size of your palm and you didn't order it.

"Uh." You weren't exactly raised to make a scene, but you don't want to dig into someone else's order. "Is this the complimentary peanuts around here? Not complaining, just, pretty sure I didn't order this."

"No, it was ordered for you." The waiter says, placing the mystery sundae and a little card in front of you. "A regular here has it addressed to one Dave Strider."

"Oh. Well." Looks like you weren't keeping as low a profile as you thought. Shit, you thought you were doing so well; you even ditched your shades despite the headache it was giving you to go without, and it's too hot for your trademark suits so you're in a breezy little blazer and slacks. Which you guess isn't that far off, in retrospect. "Alright, yeah, just. Hang on a sec, I've got a pen around here somewhere, pretty sure she's gonna want an autograph. She's here, right?"

The waiter shrugs and turns away, leaving you to your tiny sundae and a little black business card. There's a stylized hand holding a pomegranate or something on it, dripping with red threads of presumably juice, and a stark Art Deco border in silver. The only word on it is "Lethe".

It's uncomfortably suggestive and you kind of laugh internally at the unfortunate fucker who has this as a business card, like, for real? This is some Twilight fanfiction shit, dude. You're going to go over there just to congratulate them on the sheer amount of pretentious goth energy they managed to stuff into it, like your sister would be offended that this place exists. In New Orleans no less.

You turn it over. The back of the card is the same black, and has an address and a phone number written in the same blocky, silver script. If this place isn't a dark hipster music club, you're going to eat your shoes.

You almost forget about the meal you'd ordered. The waiter looks slightly offended when you ask for it to be packed up.

You don't pay much mind to the sundae either, slowly melting on your table.

~!~

You're a little stunned when you arrive at the address and it's actually pretty swanky-looking.

Like you expected some wrought iron nightmare from the card, but the old building is done up a little more like an actually pretty nice-looking if old-timey bohemian theater, with peeling paper posters outside the door for acts you've never heard of, cased behind glass to preserve them. 

So, kind of hipster, but the actual sign for Lethe is all geometric angles and electrical lighting, which says more "chic music lounge" than goth club. Also still a music place, but not exactly a _goth hipster_ place. 

You turn the card over in your hands to make sure you got the right place. Are they expecting you to go in there? You _did_  get a card from that sundae after all. If this is a hookup, they've at least got style.

You still might have to at least gently nibble your shoes. You consider doing that later, when your potential blind date isn't looking, and you don't have to explain the Striderian metaphor honor system.

You hope they're hot. Because you gotta admit to yourself, at least, just how shallow you are.

Blessedly, it's dark enough by now that the streetlamps are turning on, moths fluttering around the bulbs; of course the air is still unforgiving, salty, and muggy, but the pressure in your chest is and head is eased slightly as you step out of the car. You wipe sweat off your brow and thank your uber driver, tipping him way too much as you turn around.

Oh, big guy. Very big guy. How did you not notice this _absolute fucking unit_?

You straighten your collar and look the bouncer up and down, this massive, sweaty, vaguely Russian looking guy with hair down to his shoulders and a mouth in a permanent grimace, who looks even more out of place in this town than you do. In turn, he looks you and probably your outfit up and down, none too subtly at that, and raises an eyebrow over his squarish shades. 

"You know what you're here for, yes?" He says. His voice is so quiet you're actually surprised, and you have to strain to here him. He tilts his head to gesture with his chin. "Your clothes..."

"You about to say I'm underdressed for this place? I'm not going anywhere in this city in a three piece suit, man, I'll melt into a vaguely sarcastic puddle, just oozing on all over the place, getting mixed in with the swamp water, I'm not about that life." You shrug, not sure if the fact that your eyes keep sliding off him is because you're antsy to get out of here or because you're kind of uncomfortable with anyone taller than you. "If you're talking about the gaudy floral print, lemme just introduce you to the concept of my brand being complete bullshit and all its associated products. Don't you need to check my ID or something? I know I don't look twenty five."

"I would say you are... over dressed." He says, and slowly shakes his head. He considers for a minute longer, where you're entirely too quiet for your own comfort, before he opens a hand for you. "But yes, your ID please, and your entrance fee."

"Alright, cool." You open up your wallet and take out your drivers' license, and for good measure, fifty bucks, moving to hand them over with the card you got from earlier. His hands are fucking huge compared to yours, and yet his grip is surprisingly careful as he takes them from your hands. His _fingers_  dwarf yours, holy shit, you have _never_ been more aware of how much of a twink you are as in this moment.

He turns the card over and nods, barely even looking at your drivers' license before handing it back, including the cash, though he keeps the card with the place's name on it. He spares you one more vaguely constipated, vaguely concerned look before unhooking the rope from in front of the door.

"Please enjoy your evening." He says. You pocket your wallet as he opens the door itself, and you peer down into a dimly lit stairway, still plastered along the sides with those old, faded posters.

"Huh. Well okay, then." You say. "Loving the decor and the whole manner of the place, really. Very mysterious."

The railing is smooth, brownish metal, the brass cool under your fingers; you're surprised that it's metal, actually, because the color matches the varnished wood of the stairs themselves. This place feels vaguely like it should be a concert hall, just from that and the sound echoing towards you from below; you hear the murmur of people, and you're a little surprised that nobody was lined up outside, but maybe this place is just kind of exclusive or you need one of those little cards as an invitation; you've been to the kind.

There's another door at the bottom of the stairs, and the landing is carpeted and elaborately embroidered. You feel a shiver go through you at the images in it, or maybe just out of nerves as you step over the lurid tableau. You can make out a fruit-bearing tree, the roots made of nude, writhing bodies.

Yeah, that's fucking cursed.

This is definitely more Rose's style. You look over your shoulder at the staircase and think... but, nah, you're not gonna be in any trouble checking out this place for a few minutes. And it's cold down here, like, you can feel the sweat drying up on your skin, replaced by that tacky, clammy feeling you get entering somewhere air-conditioned after it rains. Which is gross, to be clear, but you don't want to trade it for the heat outside just yet. At the very least, until you call up another uber.

You push open the door and breathe in the cool, surprisingly still-damp air, but it's different from the swamp smell outside; it's earthy and slightly fruity, heady in a way you can't quite place. Your eyes adjust to the dark, and... Oh.

The carpet's eerie foliage sprawls across the floor even in here, the boughs bearing more and more psychedelic contents as they reach deeper into the club, splashed into glowing murals on the walls; people, foliage, animals, some lounging, fucking, or gorging on almost obscenely detailed feasts, all of it in subdued, slightly iridescent technicolor. 

More arresting than the lavish decor, though, is that when you close the door behind you and look around at tables proper they're filled with half-naked occupants, collars and domino masks, leather and fur as far as the eye can see. When they aren't half-naked they're wearing something gauzy or skintight. Or evening gowns, but like, classy-slutty evening gowns.

You can suddenly understand why the bouncer said you looked overdressed, but you find that you can't really agree. Sure, there are people wearing uh, a lot less clothing than you are? But holy shit do they make up for it with how much is going _on._

But yeah, okay, you can work with this. This isn't the first fetish club you'e been to, even though it's looking less like your run-of-the-mill fetish club and more like a fetish cult. Are those honest-to-god _hookahs_ on some of the tables? You have no doubt that they're filled with something stronger than THC oil, if only because of the glazed, blissed out faces of those lounging around exhaling plumes of smoke. And also because it definitely doesn't _smell_  like weed.

You look around a little, hands in your pockets as casual as you please. This is fine, you'll be fine, there's probably a bar or a menu you can waste some time with and you won't have to actually talk to anyone. Coming here to compliment your mystery date seems like suddenly a much worse idea, but you'll probably survive and remain unnoticed, right?

"Dave Strider! Glad you could make it."

Oh, well, there goes that idea then. 

You turn a little to the left, towards the voice, and nod as coolly as you can manage while inside you're sweating bullets and outside you're not doing much better. Maybe it's something to do with the weird, lilting music and the very evident sounds of dominance and submission going on around you, which hey, you're not exactly  _against_ , but you definitely didn't come here in the right mindset to be witnessing all of it. 

There's a lot of that "beg me to hurt you" stuff going on here, and you can easily imagine the words "beg pretty for me"coming from the razor-sharp, leather-clad dominatrix striding purposefully towards you. You hope she's not expecting you to beg, because you _just might_ beg, and that's not going to do your image any favors.

God, when did you become such a bottom bitch?

"Sup." You say. You manage to keep the nerves at least mostly out of your voice, if not the confusion. "You the one who sent me icecream earlier? I didn't get to eat it, was mostly just here to say the calling card looked cool and I appreciated it, probably should have called instead."

Yeah, because that doesn't sound completely fucking inane. It's a miracle you don't spontaneously combust then and there. She raises an eyebrow over her mask, though her grin doesn't diminish in the slightest. In fact, she _laughs_ , low and husky and entirely too hot, damn, and you're not really sure if she's laughing at you, or because she's delighted to see you. Presumably. You're pretty sure she can see you, it's probably one of those fancy see-through rubber masks, though you can't see her eyes through it at all. It's probably like wearing shades indoors, right?

"Not me, but I wouldn't have minded. Call me Charon while I'm here at work, welcome to the underworld." She leans in, murmuring in your ear like it's a private joke. "You know. The entrance to it, anyway."

"What, like a mythology-themed adult themepark?" You pull your head back to look at her, and she laughs again, and you hate that it shoots straight to your dick. You never considered yourself a bottom bitch before, but you're starting to think about it for her. This place is probably just getting to you.

"Something very like that! We pride ourselves on being as enjoyable or _unenjoyable_ as necessary." She extends a hand, and you can't help but notice her gloves have _hooks_ on the fingertips _._ You gulp thickly, but you give it a firm shake, and miraculously, she doesn't catch you on those hooks at all. "You were invited pretty specifically by upper management, though. It's not every day we get a famous director down here; I say it's a bit bold of him to have invited you at all, but I'm sure you two will get along."

The way she smiles makes you doubt that. She lets go of your hand after entirely too long, and somehow a pair of gleaming coins appear in her fingers.

You scoff. "Coin tricks, nice. Do you do children's parties when you're not head to toe in PVC and cow hides?"

"Wrong on both counts." Her teeth gleam in the weird, undulating light. "But it doesn't really matter. You seem a bit uncomfortable just standing here, so if you'll follow me, we can head to the back and you can actually introduce yourself to the boss."

You glance over your shoulder at the door. It seems to shimmer and wobble behind you, unreal and disturbingly distant, but that's gotta be a trick of the light, right? When you look back at Charon, darkly luminous as an oil slick, you square your shoulders and remind yourself that if this turns out to be some bullshit out of a snuff film, you're not entirely helpless. They've picked the wrong enigmatic director of trash films if they pull anything.

"Yeah, cool." You wish you had your shades, it's uncomfortable being the only one here without something over your face. It feels too honest and vulnerable for someone like you, and a different kind of shiver goes up your spine as you follow Charon deeper into the club. The moans, the murmured praise and admonitions, and the occasional, ecstatic scream blend together in your head, heavy as the weight of the smoke and music around you.

You could imagine the weight of the entire world over your head right now, faraway and liquefied. Or maybe that's just the feeling of walking into deep, warm water behind the woman leading you forward.

You reach the end of the room, an ornate door worked into the wall that she has to brush away the foliage from. When she opens the door, she steps in and sinks down, and you realize there are more stairs, the stairwell itself red as a wound. How deep does this place go? The ground around here can't possibly be safe for that kind of construction.

Charon seems to notice, because three steps down, she stops.

"You can turn back if you're not feeling up to it." She says, and that's what spurs you forward. 

"Hell no." You say, and follow her down. Again, you feel a thrum through your entire body, and this time you can place it as something like static, or something like a tingle down your scalp when you hear the echo of something familiar. It settles in your bones, and even though you can't hear the music from upstairs anymore, you find the air here still smells of perfumed breath.

The decor remains much the same, a repeating motif probably, though you think maybe the pattern in the carpet is more vivid now. You can pick out the fruit in the tree, stylized to be split open with dots of red representing seeds, or maybe pulp. Now that you think about it, you still haven't had any dinner, and the luscious amount of detail here, even with the grotesque roots, makes your mouth water.

Charon claps you on the shoulder and starts walking back up, her heels clicking loudly on the wood. "I'll head back now, you just walk right in and introduce yourself." She says, and then you're left in the dim, artery-red stairwell alone.

Well, shit, now that you aren't following her, this actually seems really fucking stupid.

You could easily just turn around and tell yourself this place is entirely too fucking creepy to deal with and you want nothing to do with it now that you know it's a weird sadomasochism fetish club, of course. There's nothing really stopping you from doing that. You probably should, in fact, just turn around and put this place from your mind, maybe check out a haunted house tour if you want to get your creepy kicks.

So yeah.

That's probably why you decide to push open the door and announce yourself with the kind of swagger only you can bring, even without your shades adding in that final bit of Strider charm. You smirk, because that's what you do, and you tilt your chin up in a casual little nod to cap it off.

"What up my mystery man, or at least I'm pretty sure that's what Karen up there said; I assume this is the head honcho's personal play parlor from the fact that it's tucked away down another flight of goddamn stairs and I really have to commend you on your dedication to both aesthetic and leg day, Amen."

If you can leave any time, after all, then there's no reason to hurry. You need to tell yourself that you can leave at any time.

However, your eyes adjust to the sudden amount of light being beamed into them, and uh, it doesn't look like a kinky playroom in here of any kind. Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I didn't expect this chapter to also be a 3k-word monster but I guess it be like that sometimes.

You blink as the words leave your mouth and sink into your actual consciousness, and your mental image of sex swings in the corners and walls lined with paddles resolves into something a _lot_ less intense.

It's an office, in fact, and a really serious-looking one even. It could maybe have been a funeral parlor if you wanted to be generous with the parlor phrasing, but mostly you're just reminded of like, old people's "studies", or John Egbert's dad and his particular taste in interior design, sans harlequins grinning down from every wall.   These walls have pale, neutral-looking taupe wallpaper, definitely as old as the building itself but surprisingly clean-looking despite the damp air.

The room smells faintly of perfume, or the same stuff they're smoking upstairs. Air freshener? You have no idea. It's nice but it's starting to really bother you, in a way you can't immediately place.  Besides that, though, the only thing in the room that can even _hint_ that you didn't step into a portal to a boring-looking office in like, New York or something, is the carpet. Uncomfortable would be an understatement for the repeating motif of the human tree with bloody fruit, but despite the weirdness of it, that makes this seem just a bit less insane. Maybe because it means you're still where you were five minutes ago.

You know, for whatever value of good news that might be when you're standing in the middle of the room and being stared down by its lone occupant besides yourself.

The silence kind of hangs in the air between you and the man behind the desk, someone you should guess is the Lord of the Underworld himself. He blinks, mouth half-open, brows knit together, and he has his fingers poised over a worn-looking keyboard, like you caught him right in the middle of a really angry email.

You clear your throat. 

"Uh."

Yeah, there's no saving this. All your bravado kind of just leaks out of you in a metaphorical stream of piss, shame puddling cold and worthless at your feet. You still can't forget that you just busted into his office with only the barest reassurance that you're welcome in here. 

At the very least, you can play it cool while you freak out on the inside; something you've had a lot of practice doing in front of cameras all over the world, so you're confident, at least, in your ability to do that.

"Right, taking it back; maybe you're more of a casual office scene kind of guy, I'm not judging, I just walked through your fine establishment upstairs, it's all good." You say. When he doesn't respond, still staring you down, you cough into your fist. 

"I got your card. I appreciate you sending me an adorably tiny sundae, though that's not really my style. Mostly I wanted to just uh, tell you the card looked cool, though maybe I should do that some other time; you're looking pretty busy over there."

He seems to realize that he was still typing something when you came in, and mutters something to himself as he gets back to it. You think that might actually make you feel worse as h e finishes whatever he was typing, and glances at you again. He frowns harder.  You get the vague sense of him trying to figure out what exactly just happened.

You let a few more seconds pass before you clear your throat again. "You know, if that's it, I can just go. You look _really_  busy there, so..."

You turn around, and you hear his chair creak, and he speaks up. 

"Wait- wait. Uh. Please." He's got a raspy, kind of tired voice, and an accent you can't immediately place. You don't look over your shoulder or anything, but you do turn around to face him, and tug at your collar to unstick it from the back of your neck. He looks nervous, which, actually is kind of endearing after the look he was giving you earlier. Or maybe he looks constipated; it's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.

"Well, since you asked nicely, I guess I can stick around a little longer. I mean, I didn't have anything to do the rest of the evening and I'm kind of procrastinating on Finding Myself as my sister would put it." You shrug, and his shoulders relax slightly, though they stiffen up again a moment later. He gulps, thickly.

"I think maybe we can start with the both of us sitting down" He gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk. When he looks up at you his eyes catch the light and you note they're redder than yours, huh. You take the offered seat and prop your feet up on the chair opposite you, and he makes a face at the fact that you're wearing converse in twenty-nineteen, but if he's as disgusted with them as you hope he is, he doesn't make any comment on it.

"So, I'm guessing you'd be Hades, then?" You ask him. He rolls his eyes, but your own eyes drift a little lower, to his surprisingly plush mouth. "God of the Underworld right? Unless I haven't been listening enough to my sister's poetry recitals."

"Terezi's still saying that? God, that was stupid when we came up with it and it's stupid now, no, my name's-" He pauses, like he's forgetting something. Shit, did this guy seriously forget his own name? It's right there on his desk. Or maybe he's trying to figure out how casual he should be with you; small club owner is pretty different from hotshot movie director.

"-Karkat. You can call me Karkat." In the span of however long it took you to think that (not long), he says that and wrinkles his nose again. It's adorable. The smallest little smile tugs up the corner of his mouth. "You can call me Hades if you like, but I want you to know I think it's fucking dumb to call me that _now_."

"Cool, hey, it's cool; I know a lot of artsy types who have names like that, Hell, people don't believe me when I say my last name is Strider sometimes, they keep asking _what's your real name_  or _what's that a reference to_ or whatever." This, thankfully, is more within your overall wheelhouse. You feel yourself finally starting to relax, especially as Hades- Karkat- nods along and types as you speak. You try to sneak a glance at his screen but it's dark, the luminance turned all the way down; so dark your angle makes it impossible to read without making it obvious what you're doing.

Maybe you're not as subtle as you think you are, though; when you glance away to look at his face again, he's looking unflinchingly into yours.

"Dave Strider, right?" His tone changes. Something about it echoes in the space between your eyes and the back of your skull. For a second you wonder about what a weird metaphor that is as he lets that hang in the air before he goes on, opening up a drawer to his left. "Last name... Strider... Dave, there we go."

"Wait, what?" He draws out a folder. You chuckle. "You got a file on me? Didn't think it was gonna be that kind of visit with the way you looked at me when I busted your door down."

"No, it was, I just didn't expect you to be early." You don't recall telling him that you were going to be here at any point at all. Kinda presumptuous of him to think your busy schedule would allow it.

Wait.

Is he stalking you?

"I'm not." He says, bristling. "Big names like you don't exactly go anywhere quietly." 

You must have said your thoughts out loud, but that response only makes sense if your thoughts skate along the surface. He flips the folder open where you can't look over it to read and see the contents, dragging his eyes down the page before snapping it shut again. Your name is embossed on the side, he's totally fucking stalking you or something.

Sweet. Not every day you get to meet one of the crazier fans. If nothing else, this is a lot nicer and a lot more comfortable than the time someone tried to ransom you.

"So what are you up for, an autograph, a lock of hair, the secrets to my success?" You tilt your chair back as far as you dare, arms behind your head; it's a trick that's cost you a lot of time and concussions to master, and even more to make it look effortless. "Just might be your lucky day, anything you want short, Hell, I'll give you a million dollars right the fuck now; just wire that shit to your bank account in about three days because I don't control how fast banks work or whatever. I warn you though, if you ask me to fuck, I can't get off unless we're doing Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff roleplay complete with costumes and typographical errors."

Something tells you the fact that he laughs has dick-all to do with your stellar sense of humor. Or he's laughing at something else entirely.

"That's definitely-" He cuts himself off with a chuckle, or something very close to one that sounds more like he just choked something back. He composes himself in short order, though. "That's nice, just fucking lay all your fetishes at a guy's feet without considering what he wanted to hear in the first place. Probably says a lot about what goes on in Hollywood, not that I'm surprised by any of it, but I appreciate the thought. No; fuck you for suggesting that, but no."

You blink in legitimate surprise.  You think this is where the shitty twist that he's brought you here to kill you for your crimes against cinema comes in.

"How does dinner sound?"

Oh. Nevermind.

"Dinner sounds-"  Unfortunately, as you speak, the movement disturbs the tenuous balance of the chair you'd been leaning back in. The ensuing crash is pretty much the least cool you've been in front of another person in years.

He stands up and rushes over to your side, where you're half spilled across the floor and half still sitting in the chair like maybe he won't notice you're on your back.

"... I'd ask if you were okay, but that sounds a bit redundant right now." He says. You stare past him, at the ceiling.

"... Yeah." You twiddle your thumbs and look at him, your chin pressed uncomfortably into your clavicle as you cross your ankles all dainty-like. As if on cue, your stomach rumbles and completely destroys any possibility you had of seeming like you were actually cool. Karkat here must be regretting his choices immensely. "Like I was saying, dinner sounds fine. Hell, you help me out of this chair and we can do it like, now, if you haven't had any yet."

To your surprise, he cocks his head to look you in the eye and smiles.

~!~

Apparently, Lethe has a fairly normal-looking and even suitably nice upper floor. 

Karkat leads you up there, and you assume it's where he actually lives if he's working downstairs; it's got one of those mostly open floor plans, but the way the grain of the wood floor goes, you're pretty sure that it's been renovated or something. Open, but his Spartan choice of mismatched furniture somehow manages to look lived-in anyway.

It makes you wonder how popular Lethe actually is. The only really separated spaces are the bathroom and the bedroom.

It's dark as shit at this hour, too, aside from the light coming in from behind the pristine Venetian blinds. Oddly enough, even with your shades on, you can see everything perfectly fine. You can see the paintings on the walls, a few framed posters (is that fucking _Hitch_ ), and the aforementioned furniture that you would _generously_ describe as "eclectic" but really just looks like a mix of priceless antiques and trash. Besides the posters and a single (fake) plant, there's no extraneous decor.

"Nice place." You say. You waltz in like you own it, of course, and he grumbles something under his breath as you throw yourself over the nearby couch, draping across the whole thing with one leg over the side and the other hanging from the armrest. He doesn't have any couch cushions, but he's got a woven blanket draped over the back, presumably for snuggling in when he's watching TV. "We gonna eat here?"

"Depends, do you want to ruin my upholstery or did Hollywood leave some of your manners intact?" He doesn't smile when he says that, but you're starting to think besides that earlier one downstairs, he doesn't do much smiling. Still, he turns on the lights- still dim, faintly orange- and the air-conditioning, fucking finally. You sigh in relief as cool air washes over you, surprised at how warm it was just on the way up from the club.

You can hear him still moving around, and in a minute or so he's within your line of sight again. The way you've got your head hanging off the couch gives you a pretty sweet view of that ass, too, which is probably not a great thing to be fixating on right now but it _is_ a really nice ass. You wouldn't want to waste the view by not eating the eye-candy, especially that little wiggle he does as he picks something off a high shelf.

... Candles? 

You blink.

"It's summer, dude; I know you like your whole goth aesthetic but isn't that a bit much in this heat?" He snorts as he walks past you while you prop yourself up on your elbows, and he picks up something else; an elaborate candelabra, dripping with old wax stains. This time you can't help but make a noise yourself. "Okay, I probably set myself up for that one; I didn't even know people still had those things. Family heirloom?"

"You could say that, but that'd imply I got it from family; no, and fuck you, and also if I'm going to wine and dine someone, I'm going to do it _right_." You'd have something to say about that, you don't really care about "doing it right" or whatever he means by that, you're just hungry and even Hollywood directors eat takeout pizza every now and again. 

You probably should say something, actually, because you don't really want to wait for him to cook up a full course meal for you and you think that'd be kind of much anyway, you never did get used to eating in other people's homes even if you like extravagant restaurant dates.

It's like the hand of some unseen god came in and decided to flip you off, though, because you open your mouth as Karkat strikes a match and the lights gutter out immediately. The hum of the air-conditioner disappears, too, and you realize there's just been a power outage.

"Well, shit." That certainly puts a damper on the mood and also all over your shirt because the humidity creeps in almost immediately. The warm glow of candlelight fills your vision as Karkat finishes setting up the candelabra and looks at you, lit from below like a ghost story.

"Guess we don't really have a choice in that department." He says. "Unless you want to head out into the rest of the city and find somewhere else to eat."

Well, you could is the thing. It'd be more comfortable than all this. You open your mouth again and the words don't come, though; you hesitate, maybe because he sounds slightly put off by the idea or maybe because there's something in his eyes now that you didn't see before.

"You can sit down over here at the table, you know. I'll have something ready in a few minutes even without gas. You like cold cuts?"

"Uh. Sure, yeah, I guess so." He nods and turns away from you, and you wonder what had you staring like that. But more importantly the hunger comes in even harder now, twisting in your guts and making your mouth water at the _suggestion_  of food. You really regret not having that sundae while you were waiting now, it feels like forever ago that you were so close to it.

You find yourself drifting towards the little dining table he's got set up; the candles make the whole thing look even creepier in the dark like this, long red tapers that dribble wax onto the glass plate he's set under the candelabra itself. The little pools they make look downright gory.

Karkat sets a place mat in front of you, and then a glass, a knife, a fork, and a plate. The plate already has an arrangement of dark, cured, unidentifiable meats and assorted pieces of fruit on it, lying on a bed of some kind of leafy green you can't identify. On a plate he sets to the side, a cup filled with something like toast fingers? Some kind of bread, at any rate. Dessert?

Either that was really fast or maybe you were paying less attention than you thought. You hear a cork pop and wine being poured into your glass, and you think, well, you're glad he knows what to pair things with, even if the overall mood feels as solemn, suddenly, as Holy Mass.

You haven't been to church in years, so that's kind of a weird comparison for your brain to latch onto. The shadows seem a lot deeper in here than they should, or maybe your eyes are just sliding off everything in the dark; you should probably take off your shades. (You're not going to do that.)

He seats himself opposite you and you snap out of it, regain your cool, and flash him a cocky grin in record time. 

"Fuck, I'm starving; this isn't all of it, is it?" You raise the glass of wine to your nose, swirling it a little to take a sniff. You don't know the first thing about wine; you just want to look like you do.

"Well I can't exactly make a full meal out of cold cuts, but hopefully picking out the denser stuff balances that out; and I don't think you're going to want to get too heavy with it, anyway." Again, there’s something in his eyes that catches you, almost makes you still your hands. He raises his own glass in a toast, like he's been waiting for this moment; like this is the climax to something you're unaware of.

You don't understand the language he speaks when he opens his mouth, but that accent you couldn't place slots into it perfectly in your head. When he locks eyes with you, he speaks English. 

"To health." He says. He smiles, and you think, this is some Dracula shit, isn't it? "To memory, to love, and to you, Dave Strider. Cheers."

Something in that look hungers, and you don't think it's for the food. 

"I'll drink to that." You say, and he watches as you bring the glass to your lips.


End file.
